


here at the end of all things

by abbyleaf101



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Canon Typical Non-Graphic Injury, Established Relationship, M/M, Protectiveness, apocalypse boyfriends, injury tending, post-160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22945501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbyleaf101/pseuds/abbyleaf101
Summary: “And don’t you dare say it’s only a flesh wound.”“Well, I haven’t lost any limbs…” Jon watched Martin huff a laugh and roll his eyes, face softening. The worried frown between his brows didn’t fully clear; it almost never did, anymore, unless they passed by someone Lonely-touched, and only then because his face went perfectly, terrifyingly blank. The deep valleys lift a little, though, and the crows feet curling at the edges of his eyes tilt upwards. And his hands were still gentle on Jon’s skin, as gentle as they’d always been, winding the long strip of cotton around Jon’s hand. Not a smile, not when the Hunter wore them so readily, but Jon knew what all those little tells meant. Could still remember Martin’s real smile, bathed in the golden light of a Scottish sun.or: domesticity at the end of the world
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 20
Kudos: 145





	here at the end of all things

“Look, just - for god’s  _ sake _ , Jon.” 

Exasperated, worn thin with exhaustion and not enough food and the sinkhole that had opened up under them last night, swallowing their spare tent and Jon’s winter coat. Their ‘just in case’ supplies, but the loss of them had weighed heavy on Martin’s shoulders; an extra sheet of canvas and some batting useful for repairs if nothing else, or for trade, if things got really desperate. They hadn’t lost the food, thankfully, or the precious bundle of yarn that Jon had been keeping tucked into the bottom of his own pack, scavenged over the days and weeks they’d been travelling. There’s a utilitarian jumper on Martin’s needles at the moment; no use gifting it to him yet, when he’d only fret about needing to get that done first. Better to wait, and hope the precious handful of soft aran in Jon’s backpack will soften some of the yearning he knows Martin harbours for the beautiful, intricate patterns he used to favour. Yarn enough for a cable knit scarf and matching hat, in bright mustard yellow. Safe, too, was the bundle of polaroids they’d taken the last time everyone was all together; Basira, Melanie and Georgie and the Admiral, each other. 

Nor had they lost the first aid kit, as it was currently laid out across Martin’s knees.

“And don’t you  _ dare  _ say it’s only a flesh wound.” 

“Well, I haven’t lost any limbs…” Jon watched Martin huff a laugh and roll his eyes, face softening. The worried frown between his brows didn’t fully clear; it almost never did, anymore, unless they passed by someone Lonely-touched, and only then because his face went perfectly, terrifyingly blank. The deep valleys lift a little, though, and the crows feet curling at the edges of his eyes tilt upwards. And his hands were still gentle on Jon’s skin, as gentle as they’d always been, winding the long strip of cotton around Jon’s hand. Not a smile, not when the Hunter wore them so readily, but Jon knew what all those little tells meant. Could still remember Martin’s real smile, bathed in the golden light of a Scottish sun. 

“Well if  _ someone _ wasn’t so eager to throw themselves in front of the Hunt-touched…” 

“Better the avatar with magical healing powers.” A well-trodden argument, at this point, more reflex than any great depth of feeling. They both knew the other would always intervene when the other was concerned; knew, too, that they were more likely to get out alive when they worked together. He was grateful, at least, that this particular entity-bestowed power had finally convinced Martin to keep the sterile dressings for himself. The eldritch-enhanced healing seemed about as concerned by bacteria as it had been Jon’s attempts to remove his own finger - namely, not at all. Martin’s all-too-human body, on the other hand… Arguing with Martin, Jon had learned - or at least arguing and  _ winning _ \- was an exercise in picking your battles and knowing when to cut your losses. He’d won the medical supplies battle by the skin of his teeth, and the least he could do now was let Martin wrap a few strips of old shirt around his hand. Besides, it was - well. Always nice to have an excuse for Martin’s hands on him for an extended period of time. 

“Better  _ neither of us  _ ends up bleeding. Again.”

“Right. Sorry. I’ll try harder next time.” 

Jon can’t repress the smile at the curt little exhale that gets him. It felt strange, this - this bickering, when all Jon wanted was to be  _ gentle _ . Gentle with him, to him, about him; shield him from the horrors that surround them, shield him especially from his own too-sharp tongue. Protect him from the one weapon at Jon’s disposal that was not the influence of the horrific, but all Jon. Always too cutting or curt or disdainful, even when he tried not to be. If anything, the awful world they had found themselves inhabiting had only ground down some of the sharper edges - none of them had ever managed to keep him safe, so he might as well be kind about it. 

“Besides, it wasn’t even the Hunt-touched this time.” 

Which got him a proper snort of amusement, because Jon had learned - Martin could read him, too. Learned to hear what Jon was really saying, obscured as it was under his tone. And Jon had learned to  _ enjoy  _ the bickering without his insides roiling like spoiled milk. Learned to  _ ask, _ if he wasn’t sure, and that Martin would answer him. When Martin looked up from his careful work, there was a smear of mud across his temple that obscured approximately five freckles, and a healing bruise smudged like day-old eyeliner under his right eye. Above the rim of yellowing black Martin’s eyes were glittering with wry amusement, “Yes, well. I haven’t yet found a way to protect you from your two left feet, unfortunately.” 

“Oi!” A half-hearted protest at best. It was, unfortunately, an entirely accurate assessment of Jon’s physical prowess. There had been more than enough empty air for Jon to trip over even before the ending of the world, and now every other step threatened to send him arse over tea kettle. His only salvation thus far had been that tarmac was apparently impervious to the entities,  _ probably because it was already a manifestation of the Extinction, Jon _ . The only risk to Jon’s remaining upright had been, thankfully, his own atrocious balance, intervention of the Buried notwithstanding. And the occasional attempt to dodge neatly out of the way of a Hunt-touched stranger wildly swinging a broken bottle. 

The fall itself had done little more than graze his palms. The jagged, ice pick-like spikes on the bottom of the stranger’s shoes had been more of a problem, as had the flailing stamp. But the Eye worked fast, even in a ravaged world, and now there was only a sluggish pulse of blood, not even enough to show through the makeshift bandage. By morning, even the jagged scars would be gone. Martin heaved a sigh, and secured the end of the dressing with a safety pin, the security tab pushed into place with a soft  _ click _ . Martin claimed they were liberated from the nurses station, leftover relics of his mother’s care. But the blasted things seemed to materialise in Martin’s pockets, leading to the tipsy theory that fibre crafts were the domain of the Web, which would explain a great deal about all of the crafters Jon had ever met, and also the sweater curse.  _ Maybe Annabelle just ….. Eats ungrateful boyfriends? _ had been met with more undignified, snorting laughter than Jon had felt was warranted. But he’d made Martin  _ laugh _ , and the sound was to be treasured and kept close for those days when the fog curled thick around their ankles. Besides, safety pins had turned out to be significantly more useful to post-apocalyptic life than his over eager tape recorders, and Martin had made a small fortune in spare batteries and dried pasta by ruthlessly trading the things. 

First aid duly dispensed, Martin tucked their slowly dwindling supply back into the bum bag he wore at his waist one handed, Jon’s bandaged hand still cradled tenderly in the other. Jon curled his fingers, careful not to disturb Martin’s tender work, until he could touch skin. The contact was familiar, as was the warmth of his body against Jon’s side. The world had changed; Jon and Martin had changed with it, because of it. But for all of that, this never had. Companionship, accountability,  _ love _ . Sitting shoulder to shoulder in Document Storage, Jane Prentiss at their door.. The same broad shoulders and exasperated sigh, the same spiteful, wilful determination to  _ care _ .

“Right, your turn!” 

Jon turned, used Martin’s shoulder for balance, and sat himself in Martin’s lap. The element of surprise, that’s what was needed. Martin would whine and complain and threaten, but he hadn’t yet tipped Jon out of his lap. The antiseptic wipes were reserved for improvised surgery and anything that needed stitches, but wet wipes were common enough that Jon felt justified in using one now. One corner for the smudge of mud at Martin’s temple, and a kiss for the unveiled freckles - six, not five, where the lack of sun had turned one freckle into two distinct marks. Another corner for the trickle of blood where the Hunt-touched had slashed a chunk out of Martin’s ear on the downswing, another corner for the splatter of Hunters blood across his cheek. And the last corner, as always, for the tears. 

“What am I going to do with you,” Martin murmured, once the sobs had worn themselves out again. 

“Love me, obviously.” Martin groaned, pained, and Jon pressed his laugh into Martin’s waiting mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed, quantumducky! 
> 
> written for the TMA Writer's Discord's Valentine's Exchange! prompt was: jonmartin + being protective of each other. I had great fun writing for this prompt and I am cautiously pleased with how this turned out.
> 
> yes, that's a Monty Python reference. No, I will no be apologising.


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